


Wrath & Ruin

by I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own



Series: Suilad Aran Thranduil [47]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Blind!Thranduil, Evil Author Day 2020, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, recently blinded Thranduil is angsty as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22733836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own/pseuds/I_have_a_Mycroft_of_my_very_own
Summary: Pain changes people. It makes them trust less, overthink more, and shut people out. ~Unknown
Series: Suilad Aran Thranduil [47]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/65456
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Wrath & Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of my favorite offerings this year, the annoying thing is that I've been trying to write more for this since the second Hobbit movie, so...

The constant fuss. He can’t stand it. He can’t stand it at all.

“Oh Thranduil,” the healers exclaim at him “are you alright? Do you need anything? Do you want a glass of wine? Do you want me to fetch Lord Elrond? Thranduil? Thranduil? Thranduil?!” they gush and question and talk and never shut up.

“Thranduil, you need to take things slow, you’ve only been allowed out of bed for three days now.” Elrond will tell him. “You can’t push yourself; you’ll just hurt yourself more.” The master healer will say. “It’s alright to ask for help and to admit you’re at your limits.” He’ll continue. “Thranduil, it’s alright. It’s alright. It’s alright!” He’ll say, over and over and over again, never shutting up, never ceasing to speak.

He screams and tears at his hair, his precious golden hair that he will never see again. He cries and claws at his chest with beautiful, slim, care-warn hands that he will never see again. He laughs bitterly and falls to his knees, knees that he will never see again. He smiles at the warm blood he feels slide down his skin from wounds he’s reopened. Skin that he will never see again.

The trees fuss over him too, the beautiful, living, singing, caring, swaying trees that he will never see again. They fuss over him to. They cry at him, their sorrow is so palpable he can taste it. The birds sing laments for him. The amazingly colourful and lively birds that he will never, ever see again. Everyone fusses, everyone worries, and he can’t take it.

He screams, he doesn’t care who hears. He screams and he cries and he tears at his skin in a desperate attempt to remind himself that he still lives, that he does not drift through the void. He tears his skin until it bleeds so the pain reminds him that he is not lost in a night that even the stars cannot penetrate.

_He. Just. Can. Never. See. Again._

His door opens and he can tell by the stride who it is, and he knows what they’ll say.

“Thranduil, mellon, are you alright? What do you need? Please, calm down.” Thranduil spins to the person, and he knows he must look like a vicious beast of legend.

“No, I’m not alright! I’m blind and scarred and terrified. And all anyone has to say about it is to _ask_ whether I’m alright or to _ask_ what I need, or they simply _tell_ me I’m alright and they _tell_ me what I need. Well, you know what I need? I need to be left alone!” Thranduil lunges for the elf, trusting in his superior hearing to lead him. His hands close on the healer’s shoulders, and in the next moment Thranduil is shoving him back through the door and slamming it closed. “Your constant fussing does nothing but reassure me that something is wrong, that I will never be alright, that I will never heal. Your constant fussing does nothing but reassure me that you are just as clueless and terrified as I am. Your constant fussing does nothing but reassure me that you are worrying over me because you have no idea what else to do! I don’t want your help. I don’t want your fussing. Leave me alone! Tend your other patients, Elrond; your bedside manner might work better when they can actually see you smile!” he hisses through the door, there is nothing but venom and ice in his voice, and he does not mean for it to sting so much. That venom is for himself, that chill is for himself. He does not mean for it to cut anyone but himself.

He listens as Elrond scrambles away, and he bows his head, his shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry, mellon nin. I do not mean the words I say…” but he does, because he’s a cornered animal and he’s got no way out. He does, because he’s suffocating under the constant attention and he’s got nowhere to go to escape. He does, because his words are the only weapons he has left now, and he’ll strike to kill, whether friend or foe.


End file.
